Kinda shy for a Jedi.

—

On the whole, I’m a pretty normal fourteen-year-old girl.

That is, if you exclude the fact that most of my entire extended family is made up of Southerners and general hillbillies.

And the fact that I only go to school during the winter and spring months.

Or course, you’ll also have to ignore the fact both of my parents are dead. I’ve also got more freckles than feathers on a chicken. Also, I’m a bit of a tomboy.

Okay, let’s face it. I’m just darn abnormal is all. I reckon that’s why I don’t get along with anybody else at school. And I’ve given up trying. ‘Sides, what girl would want to spend her time with friends who enjoy talking about celebrities and boys and stupid things like that? It’s complete madness, I tell you.

So I’m content being alone, and probably even more content during the fall, when I don’t have to go to that madhouse with boys who harass you and girls who harass you more. ‘Sides, English is like punishment. I ain’t much good at grammar.

The whole reason why I take school off during autumn has to do with the farm me and my folks live on. That’s another thing that ain’t exactly normal about me. I live on a dusty old apple farm.

During autumn is when all those apples get ripe enough for picking, and so we pick them. Me and my brother, Big Macintosh, used to go to school regular when our parents were alive, ‘cause they picked the apples and we just helped occasionally. That changed though when my sister was born. Little Apple Bloom lived, but Ma didn’t. Our Granny Smith came to live with us and helped take care of the baby, and so Big Macintosh took off school to help Pa pick the apples and just generally run the farm. That worked for about a year, and then Pa died in the tractor accident. Big Macintosh was a hard worker, but he couldn’t run the whole farm himself year round without help. So then I prepared to take off school, but he insisted I get a proper education, heaven knows why.

So that’s why I stay home during fall to help my brother pick the apples and help make the apple cider we sell right before fall ends, and all the while I’m learning all my lessons at home and doing my homework, which I drop off at the school every week or so. Then when the winter comes I get back to school and I’m all caught up with my lessons, and the rest of the school year is pretty much like any other girl’s. That don’t mean that I stop helping out entirely, I’m still doing a lot of work after I get home from school. Which means that I ain’t got much time on my hands for socializing, and that I don’t care about, ‘cause like I said, most of the girls I know are complete fools.

Big Macintosh and Granny Smith seem to think I spend too much time alone and should try talking to my classmates, even if they are as foolish as I think them to be. So oftentimes they let me off chores earlier than usual and tell me to go off and have some fun, but I just put that extra time into my schoolwork. ‘Cause I’m darn determined to get at least a B in English this year, and there ain’t nothing that’s gonna stop me.

They used to ask me about any friends I had at school, but I always told them that I neither had friends nor desired to pursue them. That was a lie. I’d like to have a friend, just not the kind I’ve seen walking around thus far. Granny Smith left me alone after that, but Big Mac knew I was lying about not wanting friends. Somehow he always sees through my lies. Not that they’re real good, either, I tend to be real bad at telling falsehoods, and so I don’t, usually. The truth gets found out on its own anyhow, and it just saves a lot of blood, sweat, and tears to just come out with it the first time. Big Macintosh just don’t ask me about my friends anymore because he knows I’ll get defensive over it, so he leaves me be.

Or at least he did, until that troublemaking little sister of mine told him that I talk to myself, and to my collie, Winona.

“Mackie,” Apple Bloom had said sweetly, giving him a hug, “ain’t it hard havin’ a connervation with yerself?”

“A what now?”

“Connervation, ya know, a talk.”

“You mean a conversation.”

“Yeah, that thing! Ain’t it hard to have one all by yerself?”

“Real hard. You need two people in order to have a proper one.”

“Appajack can have connervations with herself. She does it a lot. She has ‘em with ‘Nona, too!” At that point, I had felt my face burn red and I buried myself more deeply in my English book.

And then Big Macintosh gave me a talking-to about how I really should find some other girls my age to talk to, ‘cause he didn’t want me to grow up to be a hermit with a bunch of cats like Aunt Apple Brown Betty. ‘Course, I reckon that last part was supposed to be a joke, but it wasn’t funny. ‘Cause my brother just don’t understand… See, there’s just something about talking to yourself that’s a whole lot better than talking with any person. I guess it’s ‘cause you don’t have to be afraid of how the other person in the “connervation” will judge you. When you’re talking to yourself, you don’t have to try to water down a Southern accent ‘cause someone thinks you sound silly when you speak. When you’re talking to yourself, you can talk about harvesting apples and milking cows and other things like that that you might happen to find interesting and know that the other person won’t be bored.

That doesn’t mean that I’ve never regretted it. Obviously, there was the time when my brother found out, but there have been worse times. Such as the Rainbow Girl incident.

One morning, after I’d been working for about an hour or so, I had decided to take a break from apple-picking and sat back against the fence that separated the farm from the dirt path on the other side.

“The sky sure is blue,” I had noted to myself. “Boy howdy, if it ain’t the prettiest thing I ever did see. Them clouds up there sure are nice, too. It’s like a giant painting. Only more perfect, ‘cause it’s real…”

And then I had heard a snicker from behind me. I jumped to my feet and turned, and found myself face to face with a girl about my age with—get this—rainbow hair. The top part of her head was dyed red, orange, yellow. The hair that fell halfway down her back was green, blue, purple. She was the strangest person I’d ever seen.

“Talking to yourself?” she had asked innocently, with an underlying sardonicism that showed in her body language, the way she leaned against the fence so casually. I couldn’t answer. If I said ‘yes’, I’d sound like a fool. If I said ‘no’, I’d sound like a bigger fool. So I said nothing, but just watched her carefully, distrusting her and every move she made.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you know how to talk, cowgirl?” Rainbow Girl had asked me. I took offense at that. I about-faced and started walking briskly away. I could tell my face had gone red, ‘cause I happen to color easily, unlucky me, and I was glad that Rainbow Girl didn’t get to see or else she would’ve made some sort of off comment about that too.

See, it’s people like that I can’t stand. Sure, I can hide my accent if I really want to, there’ve been occasions where I’ve had to before. It’s just that I shouldn’t have to. People shouldn’t care if I happen to speak with a twang. And they shouldn’t misjudge my intelligence just because I do so. There’s one thing I’ve learned from not talking to people, and that’s how to know what they’re thinking by the way they act. I could see from the way Rainbow Girl leaned on the fence and cocked her head that she felt like causing trouble. I can see when Apple Bloom directs her little body toward the cookie jar and asks so indifferently who made them that she wants one. I can see when Big Macintosh has that deep, concerned look in his eye and pulls me toward him that he wants me to be accepted and have friends and feel happy about myself.

And I can see, when the blissful days of fall end and I get back to school, the way that girls look at me with a frown and lean toward their friends, whispering, about that girl over there wearing old hand-me-downs from her various cousins, about how odd she is and how she’ll never fit in.

I never was good at telling lies, so I’ve accepted the truth long ago.

They’re right.

“Appajack?” asked Apple Bloom, opening the door and sticking her head in. It was a cool mid-October evening, and I was in one of my solo school sessions, which I always did after work in the apple orchards.

Apple Bloom has this thick curly red hair that makes her head seem bigger than the rest of her little body, and these great wide hazel eyes. She’s five, and a darn adorable five-year-old at that. Which means that she almost never gets in trouble for nothing.

“Apple Bloom, this ain’t the time. I’m tryin’ to study!”

“You studies too much, Appajack,” Apple Bloom giggled.

“And you talk too much, Apple Bloom,” I snapped. I tried to find my place again in the book I was reading—Something or Other in the Smallest Print Available and With Every Word You Don’t Know by Somebody With Too Much Time On Their Hands—but to no avail. I already had a headache from poring over the impossibly small print and stopping every five words to look in a dictionary. I guess I wasn’t in the best of moods.

“Apple Bloom, dagnabbit, y’all made me lose my place!” I groaned, closing my eyes and placing my throbbing head in my hands. I swear, even with my eyes closed I could still see ‘infallibly’ and ‘congenial’ floating around in my head. If someone really wants to say ‘always’ or ‘friendly’, why can’t they just go out and say it? And those words had been the least of my troubles.

“How? I didn’t do nothin’ ‘cept stand here!” said Apple Bloom defensively, placing her little hands on her slim little hips and sticking her tongue out at me.

“Apple Bloom…” I scrambled off the bed and was about to strangle her when who but my big brother appeared behind her.

Big Macintosh is twenty-one (basically ancient). He’s tall and strong and funny and easy to talk to. He’s got strawberry blond hair that’s sorta longish. It don’t reach to his shoulders exactly, but it’s pretty darn close. He also has green eyes like mine and freckles, except not as much as me. He gets real protective over us girls, sometimes a little too much, but honestly I couldn’t ask for a better brother.

“Applejack? Apple Bloom ain’t causin’ trouble, is she?” Big Macintosh asked. “I just sent her up to tell you supper’s gonna be ready soon.”

“Ain’t hungry,” I told him, sinking back onto my bed and lying down. The last of the sun’s rays shining through my window made my eyes ache something awful behind my eyelids. I pulled a pillow on top of my face.

Although I couldn’t see, I could sense Big Macintosh giving me a skeptical glance. “You feelin’ all right, Applejack?”

“She done got a study headache is what she’s got,” I heard Apple Bloom say. I heard Big Macintosh walk over and felt the thick spine of my abandoned book brush against my leg. There was a short silence.

“Applejack, is this at your readin’ level?”

“I know what you’re tellin’ me,” I said irritably into the pillow. “You’re tellin’ me that I’m lousy at readin’.”

“No, I’m tellin’ you that you’re trying too hard and you have to ease into these kinds of books.”

“’Sides, you’ve been gettin’ study headaches every day!”

“She’s right, AJ…”

“Well, I beg pardon!” I exclaimed, sitting up and flinging the pillow at Big Macintosh, which he caught and tossed back on the bed. “I just wanna be smart for one chapter of my life, is that so bad?”

“But you are smart. Loads smarter than a girl usually is at your age,” said Big Macintosh.

“No need to butter me up,” I declared. “I ain’t takin’ none of that nonsense. I’m still only in Algebra, mind you, and failin’ miserably.”

Deciding he couldn’t reason with me without getting me riled up, Big Macintosh shrugged and turned to go, taking Apple Bloom’s hand.

“You sure you ain’t hungry, Applejack?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said, lying back down.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that I cooked dinner, does it?”

“It might.”

“Very funny, AJ.”

“I actually wasn’t kidding.”

Big Mac rolled his eyes at me and started walking down the stairs with Apple Bloom. “I’m sure Cousin Braeburn will help finish off your share.”

I sat up. Cousin Braeburn? Braeburn was here?

Cousin Braeburn and his folks were nomads. They didn’t rightly have their own home yet, though Braeburn always told me that home is where a person is instead of other way round. So they travelled from place to place, looking for that one place where they would all settle and start a new home. It was unusual for Braeburn to come visit, on account of his help was needed with his folks, but he came every once in a while.

“Wait!” I cried, jumping out of bed quickly, almost slipping in my socks on the wooden floor. I stumbled after them and grabbed my brother’s shoulder. “Braeburn? Braeburn is here?”

“Yeah,” Big Macintosh said, raising his eyebrows, “didn’t you hear me when I told you last week that he was comin’ to visit?”

“I never heard nothin’ of the sort.”

“Or when I told you earlier today that he was gonna get here this evening?” he asked, giving me a curious smile.

“I don’t remember that.”

“How about when I called up the stairs while you were locked up in your room to tell you he just got here?”

I opened my mouth. Then I closed it. I frowned. I thought I could remember hearing Big Macintosh yell something up to me and I’d yelled back, but my brain couldn’t recall what communication had transpired between us.

“Nuh-uh,” I said.

“Y’all were too busy studyin’,” Apple Bloom giggled as we arrived at the bottom of the stairs. “You had your ears closed.”

My face flushed red. I hated to admit it, but my little sister was right. Before I could think of a comeback, however, my ribs were being crushed in a hug that could come from only one of my many relatives. 

“Applejack! Long time, no see, cuz!” Braeburn exclaimed, giving me a hearty squeeze. His dusty reddish-blond curls got in my face. He smelled like a combination of dirt and animals and the great outdoors.

“Braeburn! Oof—n-nice to see y’all too, I—ow!”

You see, when you’ve got a headache, and Cousin Braeburn comes over to visit, your headache don’t exactly get better.

“How’ve you been, Cousin Applejack? Your brother told me you’ve been workin’ hard at school! That’s wonderful news! I know for sure you won’t end up like Great Uncle Bartlett, bless his soul—” I edged past him slightly, but he suddenly slapped me hard on the back. Of course Braeburn wasn’t trying to hurt me none, but I wasn’t able to rightly breathe for a few minutes. “—and you’ve got great ambition, yessir, great ambition just like Second Cousin Apple Fritter! Have you seen Apple Fritter recently? I ain’t seen her since the last Apple Family Reunion, well, the last last Apple Family reunion, on account of—say, Applejack, you’ve got more freckles than when I saw you last, you notice that? Your face has got more spots than our brown cow Bessie! Why, as I recall, Cousin Apple Brioche…” 

I think Braeburn’s blood is made of energy drinks.

 “…of course, she ain’t exactly the brightest apple in the bushel! Say now, how’s harvest been for y’all? We ain’t had harvest—still tryin’ to find a place to settle down, of course, all we’ve seen so far is desert and sand but I know we’ll find the place—but I’d love to know how it’s goin’ for you. Oh—has Apple Bloom started school yet? Kindergarten? Well, landsakes! She’s a big girl now, ain’t she?”

“I’m five years old since last spring!”

“And just last week Apple Butter caught sick! She’s gotten better just recently, but still, she had a rough time, you know! But can you believe it—Apple Butter’s got an indestructible health, she does. She never gets sick!”

I felt pretty sick myself, what with my headache and all.

 I stumbled into the kitchen. The smell of food hit me, but I barely took notice, my head was hurting so bad. I guess it weren’t really hurting real real bad, I’d experienced worse pain, but I still felt pretty awful all the same.

Our kitchen is kinda small, but it’s cozy, if a kitchen can be cozy. On one side there’s the oven and the stove and a little refrigerator, then in the middle there’s the sink and one countertop, and there are cupboards all above everywhere with a bunch of old cracked plates and mugs and pots and pans. Then, squished right up against the counter, there’s the dining table. Pa carved it himself. It’s made of old apple tree wood and the tabletop is all smoothed over. The legs of the table weren’t, for a while, until Big Macintosh and I kept getting splinters from having under-the-table-kicking fights, so those got smoothed over too. There are five chairs, also carved by Pa. Way back when, there was one chair each for him, Ma, Big Macintosh, and me. He carved another one when Granny came over to live at the farm—it didn’t seem right for her to use Ma’s. Now Apple Bloom sits in Ma’s chair—the one with apple blossoms carved in the back—but she has to sit on a bunch of phonebooks to be the right height. The one extra chair we have, Pa’s chair, we keep for company, like Braeburn.

I could see Granny Smith leaning over the oven and taking out a strangely lopsided apple pie. Granny, old as she is, just has something that makes her look a whole lot younger, although I ain’t able to identify what it is. Ever since our parents passed away, she’s been taking good care of us, her and Big Macintosh both. She taught me how to cook. Without what she taught me, I was pretty much only as good a chef as my brother.

She set the pie on the table, and noticed me. I rubbed my eyes.

“Well, hey there, young’un!” Granny said cheerfully. “How’re you farin’? Ya ain’t come out of your room since you and Big Macintosh stopped workin’.”

“I think I overstudied again,” I admitted, pressing on my eyelids with my fingers. “Ugh…they say you can never make the same mistake twice, but I reckon it’s an exception for me. I tend to make ‘em at least twenty times over before I’ve learned my lesson…”

“Aw, that’s all right, now,” said Granny, giving me a hug which I accepted blindly. “When I was a young little girl, I was always gettin’ into trouble, y’know.” She turned back to the pie. “Hm…I don’t think that crust is quite right.”

“My head hurts.” I complained.

“Takin’ a rain check on dinner?”

“I ain’t hungry.”

“Well, all righty then, pumpkin. Blessed be, what in tarnation did that crazy boy do to the mashed potatoes?” Granny Smith wondered, poking a wooden spoon into what I think was supposed to be food. “If’n there’s one thing I’ve learned from all my days of life, it’s that men can’t cook. Especially in this family. Seems that cookin’ and bakin’ talents skip over the males as the generations roll along. Well, Applejack, when you do get hungry, I sure ain’t gonna be feedin’ you this food.” She laid the company plates—the ones without cracks—down on the table. “Now, why don’t you go lie down on the sofa, that’s a good girl. Just close your eyes and take a rest. Heaven knows y’all have been bustin’ your rump with all your effort.”

I followed her instructions gladly. Of course, lying down on the couch and closing your eyes like you’re sick ain’t something you can do without being noticed by Cousin Braeburn, who’s only too concerned about how his “favorite cousin” is getting along.

“Hey now, what’s wrong, cuz? Are you okay? You don’t look so good. Are you sick? Or are you just tired? Why would you be tired, Applejack? We’ve got the whole night ahead of us and five months of catchin’ up to do, y’know!”

I swear, if Braeburn hadn’t seen you for two minutes he’d claim you needed two minutes’ worth of catching up and somehow drag it on for two hours. I didn’t answer, and just let him rattle on like that, ‘cause I really wasn’t in the mood to talk none.

Luckily, Granny rang the dinner triangle just then. “Soup’s on, everybody!” she exclaimed. “Y’all head on over and grab some grub, and then we’ll have dessert!”

“If Mackie’s cookin’ don’t kill you first, that is!” I joked, reaching up for the quilt that was draped over the top of the sofa. Everyone snickered slightly except Big Macintosh, who told me I was ‘darn hilarious’ and pulled the quilt over my head.

“Applejack ain’t changed a single bit, has she, Big Macintosh?” I heard Braeburn laugh jovially as he and my brother and sister crowded into the little kitchen. I was beginning to realize how plumb tuckered I was after all the apple-picking and studying I’d done today.

“Not at all,” I heard my brother reply. I couldn’t rightly tell if Big Macintosh meant it in a fond way, or in an irritated way on account of how darn sleepy I was beginning to feel all of a sudden. I was barely conscious of Winona jumping up on top of me and curling up. So I cuddled up against her, wrapped in the soft quilt Ma had made so many years before, and let myself drift off into sleep.

For a moment, I was in a world where it didn’t really matter if I was a dunce in Math and English, if my face was covered with freckles, if I was related to all the fools and embarrassments that Braeburn always recounted to us. It was okay that I had no friends. It was okay that I couldn’t remember anything no matter how hard I studied it. I didn’t have the energy to care about what Rainbow Girl or any of the others thought of me. I was freed from self-consciousness, temporarily.